


And Then

by newdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newdisaster/pseuds/newdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had something of a reputation for stating his mind whenever he felt like it in front of whomever he felt like, but it still seemed far-fetched for him to say something like THAT.</p><p>Fives times Sherlock says something wildly inappropriate in public, and the one time John does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crime Scene Shocker

                There was a moment of seemingly total silence. John looked up at the other men in the room. Lestrade was smiling, looking extremely pleased with him. Even Anderson seemed impressed. Sherlock’s face, when John turned to him, was unreadable.

And then Sherlock spoke:

                “We should have sex.”

                There was a second moment of seemingly total silence, but it was distinctly quieter than the first.

                John’s face was a mix of horror, confusion, embarrassment, tossed next to looking totally flabbergasted.

                “What?” he managed to gasp out.

                Sherlock merely turned to look at the body again.

                “With all that in mind, we need to consider the possibility that there was a second killer. No, perhaps not a killer, but a killer’s assistant. You can see the two different sets of prints, and despite the victim’s missing shoes trying to distract us and make us think the killer took the shoes, this could be the work of two people. The killer could have walked backwards to hide his own tracks while his assistant walked backwards with the shoes of the victim. If that is the case, then we must assume—”

                Sherlock carried on. Lestrade was supposed to be listening, but he was staring at John, as was everyone else. Lestrade raised his eyebrows in question, but John gave him a look back of total bafflement. Lestrade shook his head and paid attention to Sherlock while Anderson and Sally just stared at him. John’s face must have told them that he was just as shocked as they were and that, despite Sherlock’s words, that was _not_ a thing they did.

                Sherlock, for his part, acted as though he had not said a thing. He continued on deducing his way to solving the case. It led to John chasing after a woman at two in the morning before Sherlock came around the corner to ambush her. The woman turned out to be the assistant, but had decided to talk, apparently having not been paid nearly enough. Sherlock texted Lestrade the killer’s address and he was arrested within the hour. The woman, homeless, actually thanked them, seeing as she could at least get a proper meal in prison.

                They rode home in a cab, Sherlock complaining that that had not been nearly the excitement he had been hoping for. John continued to say nothing. He was trying to decide what to do. Did he question it? Did he bring it up? Did he confront Sherlock? Or did he ignore it?

                Sherlock had stated it plainly enough, but it didn’t seem like Sherlock would _truly_ say anything like that. He had something of a reputation for stating his mind whenever he felt like it in front of whomever he felt like, but it still seemed far-fetched for him to say something like that with Anderson in the bloody room.

                Perhaps it had been his attempt at humor. John had once commented that Sherlock seemed to have learned his compliments from hearing _other_ people pay compliments. If John recalled correctly, he had definitely heard Anderson say something of that nature to Sally. Perhaps Sherlock had been trying to mock Anderson, using a, regrettably, inside joke that was grossly misinterpreted.

                When they stepped foot in the flat, Sherlock was grumpy and irritated. More importantly, he made no move to advance on John, which relaxed him. It had probably been a joke. John decided, just this once, to dismiss it.

                That was something of a mistake.


	2. Angelos Outing Outburst

                Angelos was rather crowded, but John remembered that it was Friday night. For some reason, despite having heavy patronage, Angelo had the front table cleared for them. When John had asked, Angelo waved it off.

                “Had to keep track of you two somehow, so I got me a police radio. Best way to keep track of things is when I hear the coppers talking about the two nutjobs that already got the suspect. By the way, good job John. They said that you were the one that caught him in the end.”

                Taking the praise, John commented that it was all in a day’s work, Sherlock scoffing slightly. John went on to ask if ‘nutjobs’ was the only name the police usually gave them over radio. Angelo had waved it off, but made his excuses to leave in a hurry.

                Famished from having been on a stake out since eleven that morning, John found himself happily knee-deep in chicken alfredo. He slurped up one of the noodles and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

                “Mighty smart man, Angelo,” John commented, “very kind as well. Remind me to leave a generous tip.”

                “You knew where he would go,” Sherlock said.

                John looked up to see his flatmate’s gaze heavy on him. He nodded, knowing Sherlock meant the suspect.

                “Yeah, not hard to predict. He was trying to lose us so he’d take the skinny alleyway, since there was two of us.”

                “You left my side and moved to the end of the alleyway and cut him off,” Sherlock noted.

                “Yes…” John said suspiciously, “just figured I’d take the risk. If I was wrong, you would have caught him anyways.”

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes, seeming to doubt John’s assuredness. Perhaps he was doubting John’s nonchalance or lack of pride at a rather genius bit of intuition. Sensing Sherlock had no more to say, he continued eating in silence (mourning for the work that had gone into making Sherlock’s untouched steak marsala).

                It wasn’t until John got alfredo sauce just above his upper lip that anything else happened. Being jubilant at Sherlock’s something of a compliment and thrilled at having been the hero of the day, John used his tongue to venture up, over his top lip, and bring the rogue bit of white sauce into his mouth. He swiped his front teeth with his tongue and carried on eating.

                And then Sherlock spoke:

                “You would be a phenomenal lover.”

                Reacting completely rationally to your friend telling you you’d be excellent in bed, John nearly choked and put a hand to his mouth instinctively, almost as if to hold back his food. He swallowed and then looked up.

                “Excuse me?”

                However, Sherlock was no longer looking at him. He was staring out the window, his face expressionless, as if he had not even spoken. In fact, John hadn’t actually seen him say a thing. Though John doubted that _that_ had been his imagination.

                “Why…what?” John tried again and he did manage to get Sherlock to look at him.

                “Are you finished yet? I have a sample of mold sitting in the bread cupboard that I need to get back to.”

                John gaped at him for a moment and then lowered his head, stabbing into a piece of chicken with the momentarily desire for it to be the thumb of his flatmate’s hand. If Sherlock was going to play that bloody game, he could wait. Besides, John was not particularly looking forward to throwing out every bit of food in the bread cupboard when he got home.


	3. Morgue Musings

                They were both hovered over a dead body, which was something of a typical Sunday afternoon for them. The familiarity of a corpse on a slab settled John’s stomach.

                Lately, he’d had a certain bit of unease, what with Sherlock having made two decidedly sexual and unexplained comments at him only two weeks apart. It had been almost a month since the last incident and John was starting to relax. Closer proximity made it difficult for him to unwind, but seeing as there was nothing erotic about a dead body, John felt his shoulders come down and muscles loosen.

                John eyed the man on the table. Sherlock was mooning over the body, fascinated with the peculiar bruising patterns on the man’s waist, neck, and collar bone. There were two slanted bruises on his chest in a v shape almost, but never touched. There was unique bruising around his neck and he had two bruises on his hipbones. As the body had been discovered naked, Sherlock was trying to figure out what the marks could have been from.

                When they’d arrived, Molly had rolled out the man’s corpse and left quite promptly after. Sherlock made an offhanded comment about Molly having known him (something that had never seemed to bother her before) and asked for the basic details. John made the observations on the approximate time of death and the cause; strangulation made by something out of the ordinary within the last twenty-four hours. Then Sherlock was off and the room was silent except for the swish of his coat.

                John leaned back against the cold chambers and found himself staring off into the distance.

                The kid was tiny. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty. It was so sad to John. Not unfamiliar, but sad regardless. He had known kids back during his army days of similar stature. They always had all these dreams and hopes, thinking they’d get to achieve them after their time served. They usually were some of the first to go. Worse yet, if they didn’t die, they were the first to crack.

                John accessed the boy. He looked horribly scrawny. Defenseless, probably, much like the boys who had joined. They wanted to prove their strength. John remembered Miller, the youngest in his squadron, had been a tiny little thing. He’d made it through basic, but he repeatedly had stated that he wished he’d tried something other than the army; rugby, cage-fighting, karate—

                John’s mind immediately did a number of tumbles before he opened his mouth the end of his train of thoughts.

                “Sherlock, it was with a karate belt.”

                Sherlock looked up immediately, a confused expression.

                “Pardon?”

                “You said Molly knew him, right?”

                "Yes?”

               “Well, Molly told me she had been taking karate lessons ever since… Moriarty.”

               Sherlock gave him a look that John tried to mentally photograph so he could cherish it: utter bafflement. John continued:

               “Molly came in once to work. She’d dislocated her shoulder during a sparring match and asked to be brought to me. I—” John cut off a moment and blushed, “I had to undo her uniform top and I remember how it tied up. It makes a V shape closer to the neck and there are two sets of thick strings that tie it together at the hips. I also examined her belt. The higher rank you get, the thicker it gets.”

               A little light bulb clearly popped into Sherlock’s eyes, but John did not stop observing.

              “The bruises on his neck are from his belt strangling him and the other marks are from his uniform. The bruises are the width of the belt they wear. The marks on his hips would have been from where the uniform ties together and the v shape contusions would be from the top itself,” John frowned, “He was held upside down by his uniform top while he was being strangled. He’s not a very big thing, probably 130 pounds soaking wet. Maybe his killer held both the belt in one hand around his neck and the uniform was clenched in his other hand.”

              “Or there were two of them,” Sherlock commented. They stared at each other and John couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

                And then Sherlock spoke:

                “I can’t decide if I’d want you submissive and begging or dominant and demanding in bed.”

                John’s mouth dropped. His heart rate increased and his breathing went erratic. He was very certain his blood pressure levels were in danger of being fatal.

                “What?!” he managed to squeak out, but that was (of course) when Molly chose to reenter. Sherlock acted the same as he had before, as if it hadn’t happened.

                “Sorry, I’m all sorted now. Just sad. He was nearing black belt, he was. So proud of himself. His brothers always picked on him and made fun of him for it, said it would never help him,” she sighed and looked over the body, “I guess they were right.”

                John met Sherlock’s gaze and they both took off from the morgue. The victim’s brothers were arrested within the hour. They claimed it had been bullying gone horribly wrong. Sherlock had scoffed, saying it was obvious by how poorly they’d hidden the body that they hadn’t thought it through.

                The cab ride home was silent, but John was not going to let it go this time. He was going to confront Sherlock. The moment they got into the flat, coats hung up, John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and swung him around. The look of surprise on Sherlock’s face seemed completely genuine.

                “Just what are you playing at?” John challenged. Sherlock frowned at him.

                “What are you going on about now?”

                John felt the strong urge towards physical violence. His fists clenched at his sides.

                “That. In the morgue. And before at Angelos. And on a bloody crime scene!”

                “John, I really think you should calm down.”

                “You want to keep calm? Tell me what your deal is! Is it some kind of experiment: how many sexual comments can I make offhandedly to my flatmate before he kills me?”

                “It’s not an experiment.”

                “So you admit it’s something!”

                “I admit to nothing except fatigue. I shall be going now.”

                Sherlock attempted to turn towards his room and John knew, no matter what he said or did, Sherlock wasn’t going to cave. He grabbed him anyways by his collar and pointed his finger right in his face.

                “Don’t. Do it. Again.”

                “Do what, John?”

               John made to answer but realized he didn’t actually know what Sherlock was doing. Using the momentary silence, Sherlock relinquished himself from John’s grasp and retired to his room. John turned and punched the wall, leaving a nice dent in the drywall, before going to the loo. He hoped that, whatever Sherlock _had_ been doing, John’s warning would put an end to it.

                He shushed the part of him that knew it wasn’t over by a long shot. 


	4. Office Observations

               The phones were ringing off the hook. Concerned citizens were adamant about their worries being heard and acknowledged by Scotland Yard. John felt absolutely terrible for Lestrade. The man looked like he had a migraine the likes of which he had never known and, bless him, he was working right through it.

                It was so bad that Sherlock, _Sherlock,_ was keeping quiet until he was addressed. There was a throng of people pestering, complaining, and generally being loudly disruptive. John watched Lestrade, floundering around trying to answer as many questions as he possibly could with the massive intake. He looked so tired. Meanwhile, there was a possible serial rapist on the loose and where once they had been discussing leads, they were forced to let Lestrade pander to the masses.

                It was getting to be too much. Sherlock seemed to have gone into his mind palace, cutting himself off from his surroundings. John was growing frustrated. It was when Lestrade’s voice cracked as he answered a question, shouting an honest “I don’t know” and putting his head in his hands as one of the officers criticized him for not dealing with the rapist earlier.

                It was the final straw.

                “That is it!” John shouted, standing up and facing the bustling people. Everyone in the office immediately froze. John stared at all of them with a glare he had once given freely to his squadron. It was his stance, his face, and his tone that he’d worn as Captain Watson.

                “Let Lestrade do his damn job! He is bloody good at it and doesn’t need your input! Furthermore, if you are not immediately needed in this office with information relevant to the case, you will get out!”

                The office was silent for a moment, everyone surprised at such a commanding outburst.

And then Sherlock spoke:

                “You are impossibly arousing like this.”

                John, for his part, had no patience for it.

                “One more fucking word from you and you’re out too!”

                “John, that’s rather—”

                “Shut up, Sherlock!” John yelled.

                There was another moment of silence and then, to everyone’s utter shock, Sherlock complied. His mouth snapped shut and he sat down. This seemed to spur everyone into action. Twenty or so random agents and officers scattered, leaving behind paperwork. When it was all said and done, the only people left in Lestrade’s office were Sherlock, John, Anderson, and the man himself.

                John looked at Anderson, who had a file in his hand and was holding it like a shield against the angry captain.

                “That would be the forensics report, then?” John asked.

                Anderson nodded, visibly nervous. He handed it to Lestrade.

                “Good. Now get out,” John ordered.

                Sherlock smirked but said nothing, giving Lestrade the peace and quiet needed to sort through the paperwork. Sherlock only spoke when he was spoken to, and always with a careful glance to John. John had opted to stand against the wall by the door, arms crossed and analyzing anyone that dared enter without a reason.

                They were putting their coats back on when Lestrade came over to him and shook his hand.

                “Thanks, mate. I’m half tempted to kiss you.”

                John smirked, relaxing.

                “Only if you buy me a drink first.”

                “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, now.”

                They left the office with a wave. Sherlock uncharacteristically followed close behind John.

                “John, I—”Sherlock started, but John rounded on him.

                “You ready to tell me what the fuck you’re on?” John said, his hands balled in his pockets. Sherlock seemed offended.

                “I’m not on anything.”

                “Then what are you doing?”

                “I’m not doing anything.”

                “Yes you are! You just called me arousing! In front of half of Scotland Yard.”

                “You were.”

                “I…what?”

                “You were.”

                “I was what?”

                “You know I hate repeating myself and stating the obvious, John.”

                “Say it anyways.”

                “You heard me in Lestrade’s office and I needn’t say it again.”

                John’s jaw clenched.

                “Is this some kind of joke?” he accused and Sherlock’s face went oddly indignant, his jaw setting.

                “No, John, this is not a joke. I meant what I said.”

                John just froze, staring at Sherlock as the man stepped closer to him and continued:

                “I meant what I said every time.”

                John felt like he had in the morgue; his heart was beating to the point that he wondered if it could actually explode (the doctor in him reminded him that it couldn’t). They stood there unmoving and unwilling to look away. There was a heavy tension between them both, but neither one said a word. For a single moment, John thought he was about to be kissed, but there was no movement to bring them any closer. Sherlock looked away first and John felt like he had been ripped out of a trance. They returned to the flat and went their separate ways, John going straight to his room. He flopped on his bed and, despite his intention to clear his mind, his brain bombarded him with conundrums.

                It wasn’t a joke. Sherlock meant what he said. Which meant that Sherlock was actually, truly attracted to him. Not only was he attracted to him, it seemed like he was slowly propositioning John.

                John considered the times Sherlock had said something of a sexual nature and noted the timing. It was always random, usually when John did something intelligent. This time, John had been commanding.

                The way Sherlock said the little comments too almost seemed as if he was spouting them, like a filter in his mind had malfunctioned and he was unable to stop his words from spilling out.

                But it didn’t matter why because the point stood that Sherlock found him attractive and wanted to have sex with him. It also sounded as though Sherlock possibly fantasized about sex with him.

                John thought the words _does Sherlock masturbate_ before he groaned and decided that sleep was in order. He flipped on his radio for music to distract him and forced himself fall into a, regrettably, not quite dreamless sleep.


	5. Bucket-List Blubberings

                They were running again, farther than they ever had before. This time, however, they weren’t running towards anyone. They were running away from danger. That wasn’t usually their custom, but drug smugglers with big guns and vendettas against spies were not the type that Sherlock and John wanted to hang around.

                Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve and pulled him into an alleyway, the smuggler’s car speeding past. John heard the gunshots and instinctively ducked his head. They pulled around the wall and pressed their backs against it, breathing heavily.

                “Well, it’s safe to say we found them,” Sherlock panted and John laughed, but there were more shouts and they were off and running again.

                “Did you call Lestrade?” John asked as they ran, possibly with the last breath he had in his lungs, as it was starting to burn.

                “On his way,” Sherlock huffed and then violently pushed John into another cross section, “up the fire escape!”

                John jumped up and somehow managed to grab the ladder, a feat he knew was only possible with the adrenaline in his veins. He pulled it down, both men scrambling feverishly up each level until they were on the roof. They heard the squeal of tires just below them and moved a bit faster.

                Once they got on the roof, they kept crouched. John looked around, trying to figure out what the hell Sherlock had brought them to a bloody rooftop for.

                He had a thing about Sherlock and heights.

                “Why up here, Sherlock? John asked.

                “This is where I told Lestrade to meet us.”

                “Here?”

                Sherlock tilted his head and grinned.

                “Not quite. Mind your surroundings, John. This way.”

                Sherlock kept low and they moved to the edge of the roof. When John peaked over, he saw there was a building right next to them. It was a significant drop.

                “Sherlock…” John muttered apprehensively, but that was when they heard the ladder creaking. John could count more than a few footfalls.

                “No time. Come on.”

                Sherlock immediately launched himself down, landing with his knees caving and rolling. John took a deep breath and saw that Sherlock didn’t seem to have hurt himself. But Sherlock was taller, more agile than him, fitter—

                A bullet went by his ear. The blood rushed through his entire body as he jumped.

                John did not land as gracefully, but he kept moving. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen until John ran past a large air conditioning unit and saw the coat.

                Sherlock had waited and hid until John had jumped; John made a mental note to be touched later.

                They took off, running across the rooftops. They covered at least three buildings before their pursuers managed the jump. The problem, however, was that the drug pushers seemed to be just a bit faster than them, and they were gaining ground.

                “Bloody hell, why the hell are they still following us?” John asked as they ran, energized by the new rush of nearly having been shot in the head.

                “Because I have their ledger.”

                “You have what?!” John

                Suddenly, they heard a loud bang in front of them. It was luckily only a metal door slamming against brick. Out of the door came what seemed to almost be all of Scotland Yard, armed to the teeth. Lestrade was in the front.

                “Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed.

                “Get down!” someone shouted. John ducked, grabbing Sherlock’s coat to try and pull him down. The material slipped through his fingers, and Sherlock started ducking a millisecond after John.

There was another bang. Sherlock lurched sideways and fell to the ground like a doll, face first to the concrete. He went entirely too still.

                John fell of his own accord, forgetting that there were at least six armed men looking to shoot him. He fell to his knees next to Sherlock while the police moved past him, threatening in no uncertain terms to use the much-larger-than-your-little-pistol guns. The men went to their knees with curses but subdued ones.

                John didn’t care.

                He turned Sherlock over and his heart, already on the edge of collapsing, lurched. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, there was blood all over his forehead, and his mouth was open.

                “No! No! Don’t you do this! Not again! Don’t you even—” John shouted at him, grabbing his lapels and being mildly shocked when Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

                “John,” Sherlock said, sounding almost pleasantly surprised.

               “Sherlock!” John said, his voice choking as he inspected Sherlock’s head. There was a bullet graze along his brow, but nothing more. He’d escaped death by fractions of centimeters. John let out a breath like a sob.

                And then, Sherlock spoke:

                “Dear god,” Sherlock gasped, “I nearly died not knowing how you taste on my tongue.”

                John blinked a few times, staring at his literally bloody companion in his arms. It took a few seconds for his words to register.

                And then John was laughing.

                It started in his throat, bubbling up and spilling out. Then it was from his stomach, a great bellow of a laugh. He laughed and laughed, bringing Sherlock into him and tightening his arms around his body. To hell with his clothes getting a mess too; Sherlock was alive and undoubtedly still himself.

                They stayed in their position, John holding Sherlock in his arms, until the paramedics took Sherlock away to inspect him. John assured them he was fine, the blood on his skin not his. He followed them and watched as they patched Sherlock up, the man complaining but not refusing the shock blanket. John smirked the whole time. When they were finished, Lestrade immediately took them to the Yard to take statements. Some of their story was a bit fabricated, if to avoid an awkward breaking and entering charge.

                John requested that the ledger be found on the man who had tried to shoot Sherlock. Lestrade had asked which one, seeing as they’d all tried. John had replied with the one that nearly succeeded.

                It wasn’t until they were in the cab, the silence comfortable, that John giggled again.

                “How you taste on my tongue?” he asked with a laugh. Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

                “I just meant your skin, though you are welcome to interpret that as whatever section of skin you wish, as they all apply.”

                Immediately, John smiled wide, happily amused. If he blushed, he said nothing. If Sherlock noticed, he said nothing. John did, however, take Sherlock’s hand, a move that caused one of his favorite expressions on Sherlock to cross the man’s face: confusion.

                “Don’t get shot again, please,” John requested.

                “That’s a highly irrational—”

                “Sherlock,” John said poignantly. Sherlock stopped and then very gently squeezed John’s hand.

                “I’ll do my best not to.”

                They shared a smile and there was a brief moment. Both men felt it: a compulsion to close the space between them, embrace, perhaps more. To go back to the flat, slide into each other’s arms and soothe the emotional wounds with exploring hands and greedy mouths; with the sound of skin sliding against skin and low moans and whispered declarations.

                But John felt a jolt of doubt, of insecurity, and the moment passed. Their hands separated, but the mood in the cab was still warm and pleasant. They climbed the stairs together, taking off their coats and shoes in companionable silence before giving each other a nod in acknowledgment. John went up to his room, but he did not fall asleep until he heard the sounds of Sherlock and his violin drifting in through his open door. 


	6. Mycroft's Meddlings

                It was with an air of humility that Sherlock and John had walked into Mycroft’s office, but it simply couldn’t be helped. A simple smuggling case had evolved into government-level embezzling suspicions. The argument about whether to involve Sherlock’s omnipotent brother was decided when Sherlock was, understandably, denied access to records of Parliament member taxes.

                “Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, his tone making it clear that he was not surprised to see either of them, “and Dr. Watson. Always a pleasure.”

                John did not waste a pleasant smile on him. Sherlock did not waste any words.

                “I’m assuming you know why I’m here.”

                Mycroft turned from a cabinet, a file in his hand. He raised an eyebrow when he observed that both of them had not opted to sit in the chairs in front of his desk.

                “Mmm, yes. I did catch wind of your brief foray into the house of Parliament. I am only surprised that you asked for permission to look for the records, after being caught of course.”

                “Of course,” Sherlock tipped his chin up, “I do prefer to not have to consort with the morons running the country.”

                Mycroft gave him a smile that John knew was an irritated sneer.

                “Of course.”

                He waved towards the chairs, inviting them to sit. Decidedly not acknowledging them until they sat, Sherlock and John obliged.

                “You could have simply enticed the woman rather than frightening her when she caught you.”

                “Dull.”

                John raised an eyebrow.

                “You think he should have flirted with her to get the records?”

                “I don’t see why not.”

                “I thought she was married,” John pointed out.

                “Sherlock has never valued marriage.”

                “Mycroft, don’t,” Sherlock crossed his arms, looking like a petulant child, but Mycroft was smirking. Apparently, he’d discovered something to pick on Sherlock for and he was going to use it.

                “Sherlock was once engaged, you know,” Mycroft informed him.

                John’s eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead.

                “Sherlock? Engaged?”

                “Well, betrothed is the correct term,” Mycroft edited, “a young woman from our childhood. They were friends once, when they were young. When her family moved away, we kept in contact. As both children came of age, our parents decided that we might just see about marrying them, as we wanted to preserve the Holmes name and her family wanted some of the Holmes assets.”

                “You mean the money?”

                “If you wish, but there are many more benefits to being a Holmes, that Sherlock is currently disregarding, than just money.”

                “Why couldn’t they pass down the name through you?”

                Beside him, Sherlock let out a huff of laughter. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

                “At the age of sixteen, before any plans for marriage came about for me, I promptly informed my parents that I had no interest in the process of reproduction.”

                John’s brow furrowed.

                “You’re…asexual?”

                “I suppose that would be the most accurate label to place, yes. They were disappointed, but I was already advancing so far with my academics, they were not bothered. They simply decided to focus carrying on the family name through Sherlock.”

                “I take it that didn’t work out,” John smirked.

                “No,” Mycroft said, turning a stern gaze towards Sherlock. The man in question let out a rather dramatic sigh.

                “Mycroft, please let us not mull over this subject again.”

                “I insist until you admit your mistake. You were given an opportunity that you destroyed.”

                “An opportunity? You call that an opportunity?”

                “You were given a wife who loved you entirely, despite your massive amount of flaws. She would have suited you fine.”

                “More like stifled,” Sherlock mumbled. Mycroft, noting John’s confusion, turned to him.

                “As I said, Sherlock was betrothed. Kate adored him as a child. When they met again for what was to be a civil arrangement, Sherlock was a bit…rude, but she seemed all the more enticed by his erratic behavior, even after Sherlock laid her flaws out in front of her.”

                “She had an unhealthy obsession with the Royal Family. Only the most mindless of people think they are something to be… _admired_ ,” Sherlock practically snarled.

                “Despite his outburst, she was willing to work through it. She was very intelligent and very kind. Her heart was devoted to him and Sherlock squandered it.”

                “She was positively dull.”

                “Educated,” Mycroft argued.

                “In the most banal of subjects.”

                “Which is what he told her,” Mycroft continued, “but she was attached to him regardless. She appreciated his…dark appeal and unique physical features.”

                “But,” John cut in, “Sherlock is not married.” Mycroft smiled.

                “No. Everyone has their drawing lines and Sherlock made short work of finding them. The drugs were certainly something that caused her to flee from the arrangement.”

                “She just wanted to sleep with me,” Sherlock mumbled.

                “She might have,” Mycroft agreed and Sherlock scoffed.

                “So she didn’t stick around?” John asked.

                “Dr. Watson, let’s be realistic. My brother may have a set of skills which include charm, but said skill is used only for theatrics. He is unpleasant, ill-mannered, bad-tempered, and can be an absolute child. The fact that he is attractive is overlooked when it is being trampled on by his chosen personality. It should not surprise you that Ms. Middleton decided to decline a marriage, though that decision has worked out for her.”

                It took John a good five seconds before it hit him.

                “Kate _Middleton?_ ” John said, shocked, “you were engaged to Duchess Kate?”

             “She was not a duchess at the time, but yes. Try not to sound so incredulous; you sound like the commonwealth.”

                John snapped his mouth shut.

                “You could still pass on the family name,” he said offhanded. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft laughed.

                “My brother? Please. There is no one on this earth willing.”

                For some reason, John caught himself feeling offended.

                “I’m sure that’s not true.”

                “John, do keep up. Sherlock is as unpleasant as he was as an adolescent.”

                “I think he’s made progress in the time I’ve known him and he’s not unpleasant. He is the way he is.”

                “And the way he is, Dr. Watson, is pompous and arrogant. No, Sherlock is undoubtedly going to be a bachelor his entire life.”

                John felt something welling in his chest.

                “I’m pretty sure Sherlock could get more arse than you could.”

                “John,” Sherlock almost whispered beside him, his tone a mix of shock and telling him to stop talking, but John was feeling justified. Mycroft didn’t seem bothered.

                “Oh, he could charm his way into anyone’s trousers, I’m sure. But once he took off the mask, it would send his bedfellow fleeing. You know him better than anyone, John. Sherlock is meant for the solitary life and you and I both know it. I doubt anyone, if they knew him, would be willing to even sleep with him, let alone marry him.”

                And with that, John’s face set aflame. He stood up and very suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s hand and wretched him out of the chair. Then he purposely turned Sherlock and, without ceremony or warning, kissed him firmly on the lips.

                He had only meant to make a point (though he wasn’t even sure what point it was or if he would accomplish anything), but he soon was lost in the realization that he was actually kissing his flatmate. No sooner did that revelation hit than Sherlock was kissing back and John was lost. There was the slightest bit of teeth, a whole lot of tongue, and no excess of sudden passion that neither man expected to happen in Mycroft’s office. They broke apart, breathing a little heavier.

                And then John spoke:

                “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s found out what sounds you make when you come.”

                Sherlock’s mouth dropped and Mycroft looked entirely too scandalized. But John was dragging Sherlock out of the office and out the door.

                “John, wait!” Sherlock said as John was power-walking towards the corner. He stopped and turned.

                “John…” Sherlock started, and John appreciated the brief moment in which Sherlock had no idea what to say.

                “John, did you mean that?”

                “Mean what?”

                “Mean what you said. About…” Sherlock blushed. John wouldn’t have it.

                “You’re damn right I did,” he said confidently, “I think we’ve been playing coy enough now.”

                Sherlock appeared positively aghast. John grinned wide and wickedly.

                “All right, then. Why don’t we find out how you sound?”

                “And how you taste?” Sherlock grinned back.

                “Everything.”

                Sherlock and John shared a smile and hailed the nearest cab, hands entwined, while Mycroft watched from the window in his office with a small smirk.

                “Well, that’s about time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, if you like. And feel free to browse my other works ;)

**Author's Note:**

> It was late and all I could imagine was how hilarious it would be if John did some deducing and Sherlock immediately tried to do some seducing, much to the horror of John and anyone in ear shot. And thus, I decided to do a 5 + 1 of my own. Hope you like!


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